


Wild Things Run Fast

by mad_like_a_lynx



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: 1980s, Animal Abuse, Drug Use, Gen, Post-Angel Eyes, Pre-Canon, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 04:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20886053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mad_like_a_lynx/pseuds/mad_like_a_lynx
Summary: Shorter and Ash attempt to leave "the life" in New York City behind. Things do not go as planned.





	Wild Things Run Fast

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Italiano available: [Certe creature non conoscono freni](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23344630) by [PhIlLiDa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhIlLiDa/pseuds/PhIlLiDa)

It happened on a hot afternoon in June, when the city bathed in the whiteness of a summer sun, fire hydrants became street corner waterfalls, and American flags peppered the windows of the 79 Mott St. bodega.

Jaws, the fat alley-cat turned house guest, sprawled on the ice machine to show his white, ticked belly, before swatting Shorter's hand away like a fly. Hwei-ru laughed behind the register, provoking a sheepish smile as he placed a pack of steam buns and shrimp chips on the counter.

Hwei-ru studied the items, shiny with plastic, then scolded Shorter in a curt Cantonese that reminded him of his mother.

"I am going to tell Nadia that you need to eat better," she chided. He only shrugged. "Two dollars."

A wrinkly bill passed from his pocket to the checkout when the brazen shrill of a car horn sounded outside. Through a bulletin-flecked window, Shorter could see the people of Canal Street stop and stare. Even Jaws took a break from his nap to look up, ears perked and ready.

Hwei-ru turned away from the counter to peer out into the street, eyes narrowing until the brows on her face furrowed with confusion. "Shorter," she began, "it is your friend. The white boy."

Shorter hummed. Taking the bill and quarters, she deposited them into the till, then pointed a thick, strong finger at him. "You two better not be off to do something stupid."

"Not me," he grinned.

"That boy is driving a Rolls Royce. Do you think that I do not know what that is? They are in all the movies." A plastic bag with a smiley face on the front wrapped up the snacks as Shorter mused on this development. Somehow, it seemed perfectly natural for Ash to show up in a Rolls.

"Your friend is up to no good," she said, more teeth than mouth.

"We're just going for a ride."

"That better be all you're doing."

Shorter took the bag, scratched Jaw's head with his fingers, then turned towards the door. It clicked then chimed when his sneakers met the street.

"I will tell Nadia!" Hwei-ru called, "She will deal with you."

He raised a hand. "Bye, Mrs. Wu!"

Outside, the Rolls Royce purred at the curb like a content cat. Red and shiny, it felt foreign on this clip of Canal Street, a blemish disrupting the displays of bootleg Louis Vuitton and off-brand watches. Ash, feet up on the dashboard and blonde hair bleached by the sun, smoked a cigarette under a pair of Ray-Ban aviators. He looked ridiculous, like a movie star gangster.

"Hey, James Bond," Shorter sang, and Ash looked up. Maybe nobody else would notice, but his thin lips were slightly curved into a smile. With a wave, he gestured to the car. "What the hell is this?"

"Your ride," Ash replied curtly.

"Going to make me your Bond Girl?"

He could almost see Ash rolling his eyes under the sunglasses. "Just get in, Shorter."

Shorter wasn’t about to use a door on a convertible, so after walking around the body, jumped into the passenger’s seat. The car reeked of leather seats that were plush and freshly conditioned, with a gleaming cockpit and walnut accents. Summer heat dissipated under a steady stream of cool air and Shorter whistled, this car even had a/c.

"Did you get the cigarettes?" Ash asked. Shorter was already digging into the plastic bag, removing a pack of steam buns, when the mistake hit him. He slapped the side of the car.

"Hey," Ash warned.

"I forgot!" Shorter whined. "Dammit, I'll go back in."

"Forget it. That lady isn't going to sell them to you anyway.” He removed the cigarette from his lips and pressed the cherry into the ashtray. “We'll pick some up when we cross the bridge." Ash shifted the car into gear, and Shorter realized that the car was manual. He shouldn’t have been surprised that Ash could drive stick.

Shorter leaned on the window sill as the car peeled away from the sidewalk, meeting the faces of those watching with curiosity from the street. A few guys from the Happy Peacock, a group of small-time hoods who sold weed by their back dumpster, caught his eye. They only stared when he waved.

“So, what’s the story?”

“What?”

“When you said you were picking me up, I was expecting some deathtrap from Bear’s junkyard. What the fuck is this?”

“Oh,” Rolling the word on his tongue, Ash looked in thought. “The car.”

“Yeah,” rebuked Shorter. “The car.”

Tapping his fingers on the wheel, Ash seemed to think through his answer carefully. “I turn sixteen next month. Dino got it for me.”

“No shit?” This response weighed heavy.

“Yeah.”

“Dude. I don’t know what the hell you’re doing with that guy, but it’s bad news.”

“Says the guy getting his checks cut by the Lees.”

“You /know/ that’s different. Besides, we’ve talked about this. I’m done with that shit. /We’re/ done with that shit. That’s the whole point of this, isn’t it?”

Ash turned on the radio and shifted the dial. Some kind of pop song leaked through the speakers, an attempt at stopping this conversation. “What about Nadia?”

“Hm?”

“Does she know?”

After bringing up Dino, of course Ash would hit back where it hurt. Shorter bit his lip, not yet ready to talk about his sister. “No. I was gonna call her when we got to Canada.”

“She’s going to kill you.”

“Easier to ask for forgiveness.”

Ash shook his head. Chinatown passed by in strokes of color, disappearing into memory. Shorter tried to imagine all of this becoming something else, something other than home, and every street sign felt like something that would be nostalgic days from now.

They had a delivery to make up north, a simple gig that required taking a brick of cocaine to a man who called himself Moose. A stupid and gruff guy from Laos, Moose always kept his middlemen over for long parties no one wanted to be at. All the guys called him “One-More,” on account that a couple of tokes or lines were never enough, but Ash called him “One-Foot,” because he had “one-foot” further in the grave than everybody else. Shorter figured Moose looked forward to dealing with them as little as he did.

On the highway, stopped behind a big-rig and a taxi off the toll ramp, Shorter asked about it. “What you do with the stuff? You got it already, right?” Ash glanced away from the road to look at him, lips tight with annoyance. “Hey, just wondering. Who’s your hookup?”

“If you want to know if I got it from Dino, just ask.”

Shorter propped his feet up on the dashboard and formed a noise in his throat. On the radio, New Order’s drum machine made the car speakers pulse. “Well, did you?”

“No,” he responded, quick and easy.

“Because I heard what you did to Martinez.” Ash stayed silent as Shorter bobbed his foot on the panel. “That ain’t your style.”

“What’s your point?” The taxi moved ahead, and Ash maneuvered the car into the next lane, pulling past the truck. Manhattan disappeared further into the distance.

“My point is, you don’t go chasing down people for money like that, especially the boys you work with. He was using, right?” When he kept his eyes on the road, fingers stiff and still, Shorter nodded to himself. “Yeah. Thought so. Guess ol’ Papa Dino wanted to make sure your guys knew they couldn’t take advantage of your soft heart.”

When Ash clicked his tongue, Shorter knew he was testing his patience. He would be pissed off for the rest of the ride, but boxes needed to be checked.

“So,” Shorter continued, “You haven't cut the cord.”

“I thought we were leaving,” Ash’s voice cut through the conversation like a knife. “So what does any of that matter anymore?”

“I just wanna know whose blow we’re packing.”

“Shit, I don’t know. One of Alex’s friends. Some rich kid who goes to a prep school that starts with a fucking X, like a comic book or something.” Ash took the butt out of the ashtray to light it. It was more filter than a cigarette, a good indicator of his mood. “Kid is stupid, probably got it from the skinhead group that hangs out near Astor Place.”

“Those M-IX dudes?” Ripping open the plastic, Shorter took a bite from the steam bun. “I swear, you white boys are dumb as hell. What kind of name is that?”

“Wait,” Ash stared hard at him. “I thought they were called the… the ‘Mixers,’ or something?”

“They’re fucking Nazis, man. What kinda sense does that make?”

“It’s their /name./“

“Oh. No, no. Naw. See, it’s Roman numerals. M-9. Like the Beretta.”

The Rolls parked in the first gas station off the highway. Ash opened a worn leather wallet, exposing a thick wad of crisp bills. He handed Shorter a few, said to get what he wanted and to pay for the gas. While Ash prepared to put five dollar's worth in the tank, Shorter procured the goods.

Inside, the shop stunk of numerous bodies. A line stretched to the back of the candy aisle, but the cigarettes were a dollar cheaper a pack than back in Manhattan and it gave Shorter an excuse to grab a chocolate bar.

Bags in hand, he joined Ash at the side of the car until the pump clicked.

"Hey," Shorter shifted uncomfortably. "How do you think the guys will do?" He watched Ash tighten the gas cap, snap it, then shut the fuel door. "You know that Arthur is gonna take over."

He wasn't sure how he expected Ash to respond, but he at least expected something beyond an impervious stillness. Ash glanced up from the car, eyes hard and impassive.

"The guys will be fine. Alex knows the game, so does Lao. As for Arthur..." The keys jingled in his hand. "He'll get what's coming to him. He wants to be a king, but cruel rulers always have to look over their shoulders. If he wants to be Machiavelli, let him deal with the consequences.“

"You make it sound almost poetic."

"Whatever. I'm tired of this shit." Both boys returned to their seats.

"Right," in a lower voice, Shorter continued, "where did you put the stuff?”

"Gave Fly a call. Cut a hole in the floor, added some concealed hinges." Ash stomped his foot on the floor, in a place probably supposed to mean something. "Even removing the carpet, you're going to struggle seeing it."

Shorter hummed, then simply replied,"Fancy." A lot of money for a one-time deal.

Ash's wad of cash seemed endless the further north they got. He paid the tolls, bought packaged hotdogs that they heated up in a gas station microwave, and kept the Roll's stomach healthy and full. Shorter felt suspicious but grateful; after this final drug deal, he had no idea where his next paycheck was coming from.

Leaning his head into his hand on the edge of the car, Shorter stared out into the desert of pine and evergreen. The wind, sharp and chill, whipped through his hair and made his eyes water. This small thing cemented the reality of their freedom but made him painfully aware of his boredom. Ash had not said much for most of the drive.

"So, what are you gonna do?" He asked him.

Ash didn't sway his eyes from the road. "What?"

"What are you going to do? What's the plan?" When his friend snorted, he laughed. "You must have some kind of idea."

"I don't know." Ash's voice resonated with something flat and unfeeling. "Maybe go to school. Get an apartment, a girlfriend."

Imagining Ash living day by day as a normal schmuck set wrong, like an itch that couldn't be scratched. There was something bizarre in the idea of this fiercely wild kid growing old with a brood of children, an aging wife and claws filed dull. Ash working behind a cash register, wearing cheap loafers and khakis, a name tag and filling out w-9 forms complete with an address to a studio apartment.

"The normal life," Shorter mused.

"The normal life," Ash repeated. "You?"

"Guess I'll find a job." Stretching, he settled his feet back onto the dashboard. "Don't gotta be fancy. Guess I can pump gas or something."

"Big goals you got there."

"For me, quiet life is big goals. I don't need much, maybe a life that is spent outside. You know, talking to people, making enough money for rent and the month's newest music. Think I'm good with that." The more he thought about it, the more he believed it.

It took another hour for the highway to peel away and reveal a quaint, upscale town miles from the Adirondacks. Shorter mused how suburbia is a strange thing to a city kid, like stepping into a fishbowl; manicured lawns dotted with rows of identical houses, trees that barely reached a grown man's shoulders, cement that was fresh and scrubbed clean.

It felt almost mathematical in its cleanness, a sheer contradiction to the mismatched chaos of New York City. Buildings spoke in a city, filled with the histories of numerous lives and tattooed by age and graffiti. Houses in suburbia were too young to know how to talk.

On a freshly paved road sat Moose's house, young, barely settled into its foundation, and painted a healthy white. The Rolls drifted up to the mailbox before coming to a halt. Ash stared up the driveway, winding and paved with planter's gravel.

The path crunched under Shorter's sneakers as they made their way up the driveway. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "When was the last time you were here?"

"I don't know," Ash lit a cigarette upon reaching the porch. In the light of dusk, his face glowed red and blue under the flame. "Last year, I guess? Early. January or something."

Shorter knocked. Inside came rough barks from two different dogs, followed by heavy footsteps. The lock clicked and Moose, all two-hundred-fifty pounds of him, swung open the door.

"Shorter!" Two large dogs, black and brown with wide, toothy smiles, panted at his heels. Moose's face twisted into a scowl. "Back!" He hollered. One of the dogs grunted, looked up at Ash, then promptly growled. Slobber, thick and white, dribbled down its floppy jaws. Ash, impervious to this display, stared back with eyes as fierce as any animal.

"Got yourself some new muscle there?" Shorter asked, his smile dumb.

"Fucking idiots is what they are. Get!" A thick boot stuck into the ribs of one of the dogs with a sickening thump. Squealing, both animals ran back into the house, their nails slipping and catching against the floor.

"Who the hell is this?" He looked Ash over, studying him from head to toe for any recognizable feature.

His confusion was not unwarranted. As unforgettable as Ash could be, years brought growth and change. Ash wasn't the same guy he had been back in juvie, the slim kid with soft hands and wrists as fragile and thin as a bird. Life on the street gifted him a body thick with lean, sinewy muscle, and hands worn raw with callouses. Age stripped the baby fat, deepened his voice, and matured his height and face. These changes happened so slowly yet so quickly that Shorter really only took in how much Ash had changed at that moment.

"This is Ash Lynx," he told him. "You've met before."

"What the fuck?" Moose inspected Ash as if staring at something shockingly absurd. "Shit, weren't you like, this tall?" He held up his hand below his chest, more the height of a young child than a small teenaged boy. Ash, in predictable fashion, continued to smoke his cigarette in silence.

"Well," he continued. "This is a surprise. Get your asses in here."

The house could have been considered impressive, a type of style that Shorter would call fittingly typical for a mid-level gangster. Wide, open windows covered with expensive but tacky drapes, plush leather couches matted by dog hair, a giant taxidermy bear head on the wall that exposed thick, white canines and shiny marble eyes.

A large set of columns opened up the floor plan, where a large boxed TV settled in the corner of a floor peppered with tumbleweeds of dog hair. A thick, toxic smell like burning rubber permeated the air, the tell-tale sign of crack cocaine. It lingered in the walls and the furniture, heavier than cigarette smoke. The smell of something spicy and earthy, like peppers and mushrooms, added to a stew of intense odors.

"Was making dinner when you got here," Moose said, "Just let me take care of this shit." He returned to the kitchen. As a cacophony of plates clinked from the opposing side of the house, Ash began to settle by sitting on the armrest of the couch. He removed the aviators on the ridge of his nose and Shorter immediately stared.

Those bright green eyes were dull, the eyelids swollen. Flowering bruises glowed starkly against the fleshy white of his skin, the sickly blues and yellows bubbling like a piece of rotting fruit. Shorter gaped and Ash glared through a fattened, narrowed eye.

In the kitchen, the gas of the stove hissed then clicked, killing the sizzling pan. Moose's heavy footsteps traveled the floorboards until he too was standing there, gawking at Ash's face.

"Boy, what the hell happened to you?"

Shorter stared as if he were repeating Moose's question. Expectedly, Ash hissed between his teeth and held up his hands.

"I'm going to get our things," Ash said, and with a turn of his heels, went out the door. That was definitely on the list to ask him about later.

"Bring the shit," Moose called.

Uneasily, Shorter plopped onto the leather couch. His ass hurt from a long day on the road and his intestines angry from a diet of junk food. He prayed that Moose would get the fucking hint and let them sleep.

That hope was dashed when a voice came from across the room. "How's your Pops?"

"Dead," Shorter simply replied.

"Shit, you for real?"

"The Vietnamese."

Behind him, footsteps and the click of a door. Ash had returned, accompanied by their bags and the brick of cocaine. One of the dogs watched from the corner of the adjacent hall, panting heavily next to a small pool of urine.

"Fuck me," Moose examined the brick and weighed it in his hands, sniffing the plastic. "Corsicans bring the good stuff."

Plastic wrap crinkled as Moose folded it back, exposing bright, white powder and a powerful chemical odor. Shorter knew that the M-IX guys were cheap, that the faux whiteness was due to the baking soda they cut it with. It made the powder as bright as the pure stuff.

Moose sniffed at it again then looked pleased. He held the brick firmly in his hands and planted it dramatically in front of Shorter's face.

"Taste," he demanded.

Shorter hummed. So Moose was paranoid. He heard about a time that a shipment came laced with heavy doses of petrol, so probably should have seen this coming. Taking a deep breath, he prepared to see what those M-IX assholes were pushing.

He licked it. The raw, bitter taste hit his tongue then numbed it. He wagged it inside his mouth to test, dead and unfeeling, then sniffed.

Smiling, Moose next pushed the brick towards Ash, who stared at him hard under a blackened eye.

"Taste." Ash was quiet and Shorter felt his throat follow his tongue. Moose gave Ash a stare that he easily matched. Even dwarfed by his much larger stature, Ash did not wince.

"What the fuck, man?" Like a toad, he scowled. "You got somethin' to hide, white boy?"

"I don't shit where I eat," Ash replied. His voice, even and hard, had a terrifying edge to it. "Now get that out of my face." With that, he walked past him towards the hall.

Stupified, Moose looked Shorter's way.

He chuckled. "That's just the way Ash is, man."

"White boy is intense."

"White boy is very intense," Shorter agreed, and Moose left for the kitchen where he began to boil a new pot of cocaine topped with baking soda.

They ate a stew of peppers and rice on paper plates while the TV played a football game in-between commercials about junk food and toothpaste. A jingle about minty freshness sang sweetly into the room as Moose began to prepare a pipe, glass bulb raw and brown from use. He took out a small plate covered in fresh crystallized rocks, removed one, then placed it into the cavity.

Ash was on his knees in the hall, petting one of the dogs. Shorter watched until the click of a lighter diverted his attention. The pipe was glowing red under the flame and the rock had begun to melt. Burnt rubber filled his nostrils.

"Don't spoil those things," Moose grunted towards Ash. The chemical smell grew stronger. "You're gonna turn them soft. They're already fucking soft. I don't wanna get another damn dog. Shit." The lighter clicked again.

Ash ignored the order and scratched behind the dog's ear. She panted happily and pressed her giant head into his palm.

"Ah," Moose inhaled the pipe until it bubbled and spat. His lips, swollen with blisters, cracked with the experience of one very accustomed to sucking on a hot pipe. "Take one." With a hand, he pawned the pipe over to Shorter, who hesitated. He was too tired to get wired and fucked up.

"Just one hit," Moose pressured again. Shorter relented.

Taking the pipe in-between his lips, he inhaled, allowing the chemicals to fill his lungs. It was different from snorting coke, which made your nose drip with blood until your throat parched. The crack went straight to the brain, immediate and overwhelming, and Shorter must have made a sound as Moose laughed with understanding.

Shorter sat up from the couch and stared ahead, the euphoria sinking down from the throat to his toes. Blinking, he realized he could no longer feel his eyelids.

"Fuck," Moose hit a booted foot against the floor. One of the dogs startled and skid across the floor. "Right, I was saying. Your pops."

"My Pops," Shorter repeated. Saying it this time actually didn't hurt.

"Yeah. What the fuck he do?"

"I don't know." He didn't. "But dammit. I don't know what to do. Nadia is all, she is not taking this well. She keeps thinking I'll be next and ahh shit." When he went to rub his nose, he realized he couldn't feel it.

"It's just like those fucks. What was the name of that kid who works under Giang. Frankie?" Rolling it in his hands, the glass pipe caught the light and glistened captivatingly. Shorter stared. "I can't stand that guy. Even before he became a fucking lapdog who licks Giang's boots clean he was a goddamn tool. I hate tools. There's nothing worse than a motherfucker who is a /tool./ You, you don't got to worry. You're smart. Everyone digs you. Shit. This lighter is /shit./" Click after heavy click the spark wheel sparked until a flower of flame caught. It went to heat the bowl of the pipe, the neck back inside Moose's mouth.

Moose stuffing his mouth shut gave Shorter time to think, which was fine, as the anxieties of reality did not seem all that important anymore. He would get out of this life; maybe knock up some girl, get married, find an honest job and head down a path of clean living. All that bullshit back home had nothing to do with him when he was this far away. Let the kids fight, let them love, let them murder. It was no longer his problem.

The epiphany that all his worries had been senseless and stupid made a thick smile peel across his lips. From across the room, that taxidermied bear head smiled back. Shit, he thought. He could do this.

"Want one more?" asked Moose, a brief interruption, and Shorter accepted.

On the third rock, Ash intervened. "Shorter," he warned, and once again he relented. He licked his lips, still tasting the chemicals there.

"Just let him have one more," Moose chided. "You're a buzzkill, white boy."

"Shut the hell up," Ash snapped back, and that was the end of it.

A crack high is short. Too short, like a rollercoaster drop. Post-high, Shorter felt the dullness of reality. The world lost its color, fear bubbled back to the surface of his brain, and anything and everything seemed much more disappointing. He struggled to keep that hope and confidence the drugs had given him fresh through the weeds of doubt in his mind.

While Ash stayed the night in his Rolls, Shorter lightly slept on the couch with the lights on. The smell of beer, dog piss and the baking soda on the stove kept him awake just as much as the lingering buzz did. Above, the ceiling fan clicked and shook, and he imagined it falling from the ceiling to take off his head. Pulling the blanket close to his chest, he shivered as the sound of Moose’s heavy, pacing footsteps resonated throughout the house.

They left in the morning after an unsatisfactory breakfast of burnt eggs on white toast and Moose stuffing Ash's wallet full of more bills. Nothing felt better than stepping back out onto the gravel pathway, away from that house and those two pathetic dogs.

Ash revved the engine and it was back to spruce deserts and sparse, empty roads. The tape deck whistled some pop song while Shorter thought about how everyone should try smoking crack.

"Last night I was thinking," Shorter mused.

"Really?" The aviators were back on Ash's face, once again hiding the flowers blooming there.

"Don't be that way, man. Hear me out."

"I'm listening."

"I really think we can do this. Last night, it actually seemed real. Like, I could have a life. A real one."

"Was it you thinking that or the crack?"

"What's the difference? For a moment I was able to see past my doubts, is all."

At high noon the Rolls pulled into the visitor's center parking lot at Niagra Falls State Park. The summer air was tinted with mist, fresh and bright. In the sun, the red coat of the Rolls gleamed like a ruby.

For a weekday, the visitor's center was crowded, occupied by families looking to escape the summer heatwave. Ash pointed to a cafe where they each got a lukewarm, burnt tasting coffee that quickly settled in their stomachs. The caffeine made Shorter feel better, more aware.

"Let's go to the outlook," Ash suggested.

Standing at the outlook felt familiar, if only because it seemed similar to their times at The Exchange, where they watched a New York skyline. Ash had the same posture as back then, slumped over the rails, gaze fixated on the view. Wildly his hair blew with the wind of raging water, his eyes peaceful and steady.

Shorter hung his arms over as well, taking in scenery once only familiar in photographs. Strange as it was to be here, everything felt right. Just as the water freely tumbled over the falls, taking with it fish and sediment and whatever else, life had dumped them on the other side. This was freedom.

A sniff interrupted his thoughts. He turned to Ash, who had an indescribable look on his face.

"Dude," Shorter frowned. "Are you crying?" Ash said nothing. "Holy shit, you are. Why?"

There was a pause as Ash stared out into the falls, enormous and ancient.

"Because there are bigger things in the world,” he said. Somehow, that made sense.

More ambling brought them to a gift shop. Among the aisles of cheap t-shirts and magnets and taxidermied fish, he found it: the thing that would finally cement this reality, a postcard with an 1800's-style etching of the falls on the front, a gift that would go to Nadia in the mail.

“Well, that’s that,” Ash said, then put the aviators back on his face. They were barely out the door.

“Huh?”

“Time to head back.”

“Wait, what the hell are you talking about?”

“It’s nice to pretend, but I got a meeting with Dino tomorrow. So we gotta get going.” He spun the keys around his finger. "Wait," pausing, he stared at Shorter. "Did you really think..."

He had. The silence between them grew thick and uncomfortable.

“I would have sold the Rolls," Ash said, clear and concise, as if explaining the obvious.

"Then why the hell are we here?"

"I wanted to know what it would feel like." Somehow, that made sense too.

The return to New York was eclipsed in a very different kind of silence. Ash didn't say much, but neither did Shorter. Miles down into Upstate New York he found himself holding that postcard in-between his fingers, musing on a life he abandoned before it could even begin. His thumb pressed a fold into the cardstock, then let go. It took flight and flew behind the Rolls, disappearing into approaching dusk.

Then he saw it, the deer, lithe form soaring across the road. Ash saw it too. The car buckled under the brakes, too late to matter.

With a thump, the body exploded into a mess of red gore. Blood sprayed the windshield like rain, got into the seats. Ash's eyes held a wide shock Shorter had never seen before. His face, peppered with blood, stretched thin in a strange mix of confusion and horror.

His hands at the wheel were just as stiff until Shorter realized that they were not on the wheel at all. Ash trembled in an episodic trance, eyes bulging, foot keeping the engine revving.

Shit!

Grabbing the wheel, he forced the car to skid to the side of the road and slammed the brakes. The car stopped with a sudden jolt, the nose feet away from tumbling into the brush.

Shorter heaved, his heart pounding fast and vomit in his mouth. At his back, Ash's chest pumped just as quickly.

"Ash! What the fuck was that!" He demanded.

Ash heaved over the steering wheel, drool dripping from his mouth. With his blacked-out eyes, frazzled hair and covered in deer blood, he seemed a mess. Shorter hated how vulnerable and pitiful his friend looked. It was too real, much too big of a crack in the facade, to not be terrifyingly unnerving.

"Dude."

"Sorry. I'm sorry." Ash gasped. At the wheel, his fingers still trembled. "I freaked out."

"No shit, you almost killed us." He kicked open the door. "What the hell happened?"

"I don't know," came the weak reply. Ash's forehead pressed against his fingers, body tight in his seat. "I don't know."

Shorter's body tensed with a temporary, anxious fury. Ash wasn't one to do reckless, stupid shit like this, and he knew his adrenaline had taken the wheel. Taking a deep breath he peered over the side of the car. "But real talk. You okay?"

Ash exhaled. "I just need to rest and smoke a cigarette." Shorter took one too.

The night air had begun to settle about an hour before, shadowing the road with heavy dusk. Walking around the car, Shorter went to check the front. In the light of the car beams, he could see the corpse of the deer about a half-mile down the road. Twisted, human-like.

Swallowing back the bile in his throat, he inspected the grill. The damage seemed mostly minimal, the blood barely visible on the starkly red body. Ash could count himself lucky that this car got built better than some tanks.

"Everything looks okay," Shorter said. Making one more round on each side, he didn't see anything worth noting. That deer definitely got the short stick.

Looking back at Ash, he saw the color had returned to his face. He breathed more easily now, though the breaths were slow and steady.

Taking his seat back in the vehicle, he stared back at his friend. "You good to drive?"

Ash sat quietly, something on his lips, until finally, he spoke. "Can I tell you something?"

With a nod, Shorter said, "Yeah. Of course." Ash never talked about himself. This opportunity wouldn't be wasted. 

"When I first went to live with Dino," he said it with quiet, flat words. "He had other projects. Other pets."

Shorter snubbed his cigarette into the ashtray then leaned back into the leather seat. Above, the stars glistened in the sky like fireflies. The smell of thick pine accented the shrill of crickets and buzzing insects.

"He knew a guy... think his name was Marcus. Guy lives in Florida where he breeds tigers. All sorts of exotic animals, but mostly tigers. I've seen pictures. It's this large, terrible estate crowded for miles with wired cages. Hundreds of tigers, piled on top of one another, placed in these shitty habitats to suffer in foreign, Florida weather.

Marcus, I met him once. He was one of those animal guys who walked around with a pet monkey, and he treated that thing like a car ornament. Fuck did it look sad, clinging to his shoulder, eyes bugging out of its face. They were full of sheer horror. Think that's what he was originally trying to sell to Dino-- a monkey, but you know Dino. He needed the most dangerous, the most beautiful. This was before he realized the most dangerous animal he could own wasn't a lion or a tiger.

He came back from Florida with two Bengal tiger cubs. At the New Jersey estate, he had his guys build a large enclosure, then decorated it with fauna and box houses. The tigers were fitted with collars and named Esmee and Francois. The first week in their new home, the cub's claws were removed and their sharp canines filed down to nubs.

They got bigger; the older they got, the more dangerous and beautiful. That's what Dino used to say to me: 'Kitten, you age just like a tiger.'" Ash sucked on his cigarette, let the light make his face burn bright. His eyes, red under the cherry glow, flickered with a mischievous vacancy reserved only for particular men. It always felt strange, when Ash used those eyes on Shorter.

He continued, "But even tigers get depressed. They moped in corners as their bodies shrank with hunger, their minds becoming dull and bored. The desire to be wild wasn't there. Much too tame for wild things, Dino lost interest.

Then, he brought me home.

Watching the tigers pace calmed me down, familiar as a reflection. As a child who still believed in stupid things, I thought the tigers saw the same in me; that through their stripes they communicated messages only I was privvy to, tiny words that made sense out of my suffering. I sat for hours in front of that wired fence, watching.

That day... It was early evening, I'll never forget it. He brought me down to the cages with Enzo and Claude, these big guys who carried around guns and large knives. They were around a lot back then, but often hung out on the back end of the property. Today however, they were with us, going to see the tigers.

I don't remember what Dino said when Enzo unlatched the cage and stepped inside. The tigers, skinny and frail, stared at him dully. Then, through the slim holes of wire, I saw it happen. The gun clicked, then fired. A bullet entered Francois' head, piercing his brain. He must have died instantly. Another pop, then another. Pop. Pop. Pop.

Esmee, she stood over Francois' corpse with curious confusion. In her thick, ticked legs were holes, blood streaming down her fur like a fresh pair of stripes. I can still see that look in her eyes, hollow and empty. Tigers, they scream like monsters.

Enzo prepared another shot, but she moved much too quick. Esmee leapt, ripping open his arm like a chunk of meat, canines sinking in deep and thorough. Enzo screamed then pulled. Esmee pulled harder. His arm, it hung there, a limp piece of carrion. Still pink and fleshy, but more doll-like than human.

Esmee looked at Dino and me, mouth full of blood and eyes curious yet still. She visibly licked her teeth, summoned a garbled keen, then sniffed the trembling Enzo beneath her. The tiger's massive paws were almost as big as his head and I could hear him sob and shake as her nose pressed firmly to his ear and inhaled.

But then, as quick as she had attacked, she disappeared. In a flash of orange, her large, skinny body took off towards the forest.

Seeing her disappear into the trees... I was elated, Shorter. She had made it, gone back to being a wild thing. Only when I heard the gunshot did I realize how Claude had followed after her.

'Wild things run fast, but not fast enough,' Dino told me. Enzo lost the arm."

Shorter started out into the road from where they came, what was once inviting and promising now dark and inaccessible.

"I'm alright now," Ash said, then took a deep breath. "Let's get back." He put the keys into the ignition and turned.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Twitter @madlikealynx. Thanks for reading!


End file.
